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  • Jennifer Preston Chushcoff


True North

We are not only stars, love, but the very earth spinning beneath our feet. The young, sharp-edged, glacial peaks, the humble nursery of oak and mushroom, moss and lichen, where humans neglect to tread.

It’s true, these atoms of ours navigate the light-pricked, indigo sky, strewn by gods and goddesses, triangulated by stories of ancient myth.

Their heroes and monsters hold the course for Homer, Cook and all those in-between, as ships turn wheel and rudder, armadas cross the deep and quiet graves.

The Rose cannot help, but charm the arrow north and we know, the ground is sacred. The Iiquid iron circulates, breathes a living line, unhinged from Earth’s own geography, where tattered flags hang in snow ghost prairies.

All life roots in earth, grown in ancestral soil. By now, it is all bone and blood, all bone and blood. We are vessels of immortality.

We gather and distribute, like trees in autumn, caught in a wind. Too many goodbyes to grieve, only gratitude for this singular shared beauty. Gratitude. The heart so full, it has no words. This is as it should be.

Before we close our eyes to sleep, think of the stars, the miles they travel to bring you light, to lead the way. Think of the suns in galaxies you cannot see, and the quiet white mushroom stretching, the sun flexing its gills.

They breathe the world alongside us. We are in each filament, the stalk and cap. We are in the trunk of the mighty oak, in each leaf waving this fresh-born day forward.


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